Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 78304 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78304 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
When I get to the kitchen, I go about grabbing the dishes I bought to look like I made them and heat them up as the manager at the restaurant explained to do. I also throw in the mac ’n’ cheese Helen made.
While they heat up, I work on getting the outside area set up to eat. Once everything’s hot, I create a buffet of sorts. Julian comes over with the burgers and chicken, and everyone starts to fill their plates.
“Ana, this sweet potato casserole is delicious!” my dad exclaims from across the table. “Where did you get it from?”
“She made it,” Julian says as he stuffs his face with a forkful of mac ’n’ cheese. “She made all of it.”
He shoots me a quick wink, and my heart swells at him having my back. I might not be wife material, but Julian is definitely husband material.
“Oh, wow,” Helen says. “I’ll have to get the recipes from you.”
“Really?” Nora adds, furrowing her brows in mock contemplation while I hold my breath, praying she’s not about to say what I think she’s about to say … and then she says it. “It tastes an awful lot like the sweet potato casserole from Maggie’s. As a matter of fact, so does the pasta salad and the fruit salad.” She smirks. “Are you sure you actually made these? Because I’m pretty sure when I ate there a few weeks ago—”
“Enough,” Julian barks as tears of embarrassment prick my eyes.
“Excuse me,” I rush out, standing to get away before I cry in front of everyone. “I think I forgot … something.”
I run from the table, not stopping until I get to the guest bathroom and lock myself in. I don’t know what I was thinking, lying about cooking. I should’ve just said I bought it, and nobody would’ve cared.
As I swipe at the tears that are sliding down my cheeks, there’s a soft knock on the door. Assuming it’s Julian, I wipe under my eyes and then crack the door open.
Only it’s not Julian.
“Helen,” I gasp.
“Can we talk?”
She smiles softly, and I step out and follow her to the living room, where she sits on the couch and pats the cushion next to her for me to join.
“The lunch was delicious.”
“Thanks.” I snort out a self-deprecating laugh. “But as you heard, I didn’t make it. The truth is, I can’t cook or clean or do laundry.”
“Why did you lie?” she asks, zero judgment in her tone.
“Because I wanted to impress you,” I admit truthfully. “Julian thinks the world of you. The way you take care of your family. You taught them how to cook and clean and do laundry.” I shrug sheepishly.
“I wanted you to think I was capable of taking care of him as well. You’re, like, the perfect wife and mom,” I mutter. “Meanwhile, I can barely boil a pot of water without burning it.”
“Oh, Ana,” she says, taking my hand in hers and squeezing it. “First of all, nobody is perfect. And there are many other ways to take care of someone.”
“How?”
“Well, sometimes, taking care of someone is as simple as loving them. I’ve only been around you and my son for a short time, but I can see a huge change in him. He laughs and smiles more. He can’t keep his eyes off of you.”
As she speaks, her admission swirls around in my head, making me dizzy. She thinks Julian loves me? I know he’s mentioned wanting to see where things could go between us, but love? Is it possible?
“So what if you don’t do all the domestic stuff?” she continues. “You make him happy, and as his mom, that’s all that matters to me … that my children are happy.”
“And that’s all that matters to me,” Julian says, making me jump in my seat.
“Mom, can you give me a moment with Ana, please?” he adds, walking over to stand next to me.
“Of course.” She smiles at him. Then, she turns back to me and says, “If you ever want to learn how to cook or bake, I’d love to teach you, but if that’s not something that interests you, that’s okay too.”
“Thank you,” I tell her. “That means a lot to me.”
Once Julian and I are alone, I lean back and groan. “Not exactly how I hoped today would go.”
“Eh”—he chuckles—“could’ve gone worse.”
“Really?” I hiss, glancing over at him. “How so?”
“You could’ve served the food you made and given everyone food poisoning.”
He shrugs, and I glare his way, not finding his joke funny in the slightest.
“I hate you.”
I smack his chest, and he grabs my hand, pulling me into his lap so I’m straddling his thighs.
“No, you don’t,” he says, leaning in and kissing me. “You like me,” he singsongs. “You really, really like me.”
“How do you figure?” I mutter.